Moisturise Me
by alovelycupoftea
Summary: Harry and Draco bond over Quidditch and moisturiser in their post-war eighth year. Written for lj's hd smoochfest 2009. Harry/Draco


**Title:** Moisturise Me  
**Author:** **alovelycupoftea**  
**Gift Fic For:** **joan_waterhouse** in **hd_smoochfest**  
**Prompt:** #12  
**Rating:** NC17  
**Time-period / theme:** 8th year (EWE)  
**Place:** Hogwarts Quidditch locker rooms  
**Object / word prompts:** cold, mulled mead, "Please!"  
**Action:** nuzzle  
**Squicks:** Weasley bashing, mpreg.  
**Preferences / Other notes:** I love snarky!Draco :)  
**Word Count:** 3,774  
**Warning(s):** Boy smut. Fluffy.  
**Beta:** **fat_teaspoon**  
**Author's notes:** I hope this fulfils your wishes!  
**Disclaimer:** Characters are the property of JK Rowling, et al. No profit is made from this fic.

Harry jogged down to the Quidditch pitch, relieved to be out of the castle. After lessons all day, followed by Hermione-supervised NEWTs preparation before and after dinner, and then chatting to Seamus, Dean and Ron in the Eighth-year common room, he was desperate for time to himself. Spending a summer in solitude had left him shaken by his return to Hogwarts, and he had discovered that the only way he could retain his equilibrium was to spend a little time each day alone. Harry had wallowed in his grief and sense of post-war displacement in unstructured days and gallons of Firewhiskey at Grimmauld Place all summer, barely leaving the house except when dragged out by an assortment of concerned people. The structured chaos which characterised Hogwarts had made him irritable and threatened the tentative mental stability he and his Mind Healer had achieved. A few weeks into term McGonagall had stopped him in a corridor and discreetly suggested that he spend time in activities that distracted his body enough to quieten his mind. He'd decided he had no choice but to take ownership of his moods, and health, and had started flying again.

The post-war insomnia at least had the benefit of ensuring he was always awake to spend dawn on the Quidditch pitch, flying around and practising catching the Snitch. After spending every early morning for a week outside, he felt so much better that he resolved to spend his evenings outside, too. The first time he did that was a Saturday night, when, declining the general invitation to go to the pub in Hogsmeade with the other Eighth-years, he had taken his broom down to the pitch. From a distance he had seen the floodlights, which meant the pitch was in use, and when he got closer he saw a glint of pale hair and a distinctive flying style. He'd turned back to the castle, disgruntled that Malfoy, of all people, had ruined his plans.

He had spent the evening in the pub, after all, yet even though he was among friends, he yearned for the release of being in the air. Their chatter didn't engage him and he felt restless and exposed. He drank his mulled mead sullenly. He decided that he was an adult and the Quidditch pitch was huge, and that he and Malfoy could fly in the same airspace without hexing each other. Buoyed up by his mature approach, he had been perversely disappointed to not see Malfoy again. As he rounded the corner later that week, he almost hoped that the floodlit pitch meant Malfoy was flying again.

As Harry returned from the locker room, with his gloves and pads on over his warm tracksuit and layers of jumpers, he idly wondered why quietening his mind had to be so bloody cold. November in Scotland was ideal for sitting next to roaring fires, not flying round in the frozen air. The chilling wind brought what sounded like an emphatic curse to Harry's ears and, looking up, he saw Malfoy had spotted him. He watched him land and stride towards the changing block, all the time refusing to catch Harry's eye.

As he got closer, Harry stepped into his path. "Malfoy." He tried to keep his tone neutral.

Malfoy lifted his head, looking surprised and resigned. "Potter."

Harry shifted his broomstick from one hand to the other. "You don't have to go just because I've arrived. The pitch is big enough for the both of us."

He watched something like disdain flicker on Malfoy's face. "Not everything revolves around you, Potter. I'm going inside because it's fucking freezing out here."

Harry nodded. "Okay. Have a good evening." He continued towards the pitch, and would have sworn that Malfoy was watching him walk away.

He didn't leave the pitch with his customary post Quidditch calm. The encounter with Malfoy had irked him, and he'd been thinking about it instead of focusing on flying and nothingness. He couldn't work out why he was annoyed that Malfoy had left, even though he came to fly for the solitude.

The next morning he woke up a little later than usual, and even though it was still dark, decided to have a quick fly. Running down to the pitch, he again saw the floodlights already on, and wondered who could possibly have invaded his pre dawn routine. He nearly smiled. Of course it was Malfoy.

Malfoy had charmed a couple of Bludgers to fly at him and he was hitting them ferociously towards the goal hoops. Harry looked up, impressed. Malfoy was almost as good a Beater as he was a Seeker. It also looked like he was getting rid of a lot of pent up emotion. He grabbed a Quaffle from the box next to the entrance to the pitch.

Flying up into the air, he yelled to Malfoy. "Hey! Malfoy! Want to play one on one?"

Malfoy thwacked a Bludger through the centre hoop. "I'd rather knock myself out with my bat!" he shouted back.

Harry sighed. When did he start being nice to Malfoy, anyway? He took himself over to the opposite side of the pitch and started throwing the Quaffle towards the hoops. He usually played with the Snitch, but he was beginning to get bored of seeing how many times he could catch it in half an hour, and he couldn't guarantee it wouldn't fly into Malfoy's half of the pitch. It was surprisingly fun seeing if he could score a goal and then retrieve the Quaffle before it hit the ground. He was concentrating so hard that he didn't notice Malfoy leave the pitch. He glanced at his watch and realised he'd have to hurry to shower before breakfast. He had taken to keeping a spare set of school robes and toiletries in the Quidditch locker rooms and he was grateful now for his forethought. He absently noted the shower floor was wet and realised Malfoy must keep clothes there too.

Harry slid into a seat at the Gryffindor table. Looking across at Malfoy he saw that his hair was damp and his face still flushed with exertion and cold. He looked appealing. Harry stopped his piece of toast on its journey to his mouth. He did not just think that Malfoy looked appealing. Appalling. He thought he looked appalling. All mussed and a little unkempt. He snapped his jaw shut and abandoned his breakfast. Perhaps all the fresh air was bad for him.

That day he couldn't help but watch Malfoy. He and Zabini were the only Slytherin Eighth-years and they always worked together in lessons. All of the Eighth-years were taught together and as he was staring at the back of Malfoy's head rather than at Flitwick he saw that his hair had dried and was curling up at the bottom over the collar of his robes. It was almost cute. Harry shook his head determinedly, and tried to concentrate on Flitwick demonstrating wand movements.

When Harry had completed his homework to Hermione's satisfaction and escaped from the library to the common room, he realised that he never saw Malfoy socialising. Zabini had made a few other friends and seemed quite comfortable, but he only ever saw Malfoy walking through the room to his bedroom. He wondered if he did anything other than schoolwork and flying.

Thinking about flying made him yearn to be in the air and away from the oppressive cheerfulness of the common room. As he walked out of his room, changed into the warmest clothes he could find, he was stopped by Dean. "Mate, you flying again?"

Harry smiled, slightly. "Yeah. Good for the head, y'know."

Dean nodded understandingly and Harry realised he probably wasn't the only one remembering the past year. "Anyway, you know how we aren't allowed to play House Quidditch this year?" Harry nodded. "A couple of us were thinking, we should have an Eighth-year friendly this Sunday morning. Get together two teams and just have fun. What do you think?"

He smiled. "Sounds great. Count me in. But not as Seeker. I'll play something else."

Dean looked a bit surprised. "All right. I'll book the pitch and we can sort out positions on the day, yeah?"

As he jogged down to the pitch, he wondered if anyone would think to invite Malfoy. There was no outright hostility towards him, but people's civility was definitely cool. He resolved to ask him, if only because he was a bloody good Quidditch player.

He smiled, noticing that Malfoy was playing with the Quaffle in the same way he had been that morning. He grabbed a bat and a Bludger and flew over to his own end of the pitch. "Evening, Malfoy!"

Malfoy turned round and looked at him, but didn't reply. Harry began swinging his bat energetically and began to see why Fred and George had enjoyed playing Beater so much. The sudden sick feeling in his stomach made him swallow heavily. He hit the Bludger with unnecessary force and wished it was his grief he was hitting away.

Thwack. Sirius. Thwack. Remus. Thwack. Tonks. Thwack. Dumbledore. Thwack. His dad. Thwack. His mum. Thwack. Snape. Thwack. Cedric. Thwack. Countless Muggles. Thwack. Another memory of another body.

The biting wind made his tears feel like they were frozen to his cheeks and he flew carelessly close to the changing block as he landed. Putting his broom, bat and ball away, he hurried into the changing room and turned the shower on as hot as he could stand. He stripped off and stood in the spray, his tears mingling with the too hot water and his whole body feeling as if it were on fire. The heat on his chilled body reminded him of Fiendfyre and he sank to the ground, sobbing. How could one person feel so much pain?

Eventually, he stood up and mechanically washed his hair and body. He pulled clean clothes on, and saw that there were clean school robes in his locker. He smiled grimly. The house elves must have realised his laundry was now split over two places. He swallowed another set of tears at the thought that previously it would have been Dobby who would have made sure that he always had clean clothes. He slammed the locker door shut on that reminder.

The noise made Malfoy visibly start. His open locker door had stopped Harry seeing that he had been standing in the doorway. He was drenched in sweat and looked hot but frozen all at the same time. Harry nodded automatically and left the room.

Just as he was drifting off into an exhausted sleep, he realised he hadn't asked Malfoy if he wanted to play on Sunday.

As Harry awoke, refreshed, he wondered if uncontrollable draining crying fits were a recognised cure for insomnia. He put last night's clothes back on, and headed down to the pitch. He was grateful that McGonagall had given him permission to go into London to a Muggle sports shop so he could buy as many gym clothes as he thought he could possibly use. The thought of putting on sweaty clothes made his skin crawl and he wore at least two tracksuits a day. He was grateful that his laundry was not his job anymore.

He grabbed a Quaffle and his broom and went to his end of the pitch. Malfoy was there already. Harry wondered if he ever slept. Flying into the middle of the stadium, he shouted, "Morning, Malfoy!"

Malfoy turned neatly on his broom. "Your powers of observation continue to astound me, Potter."

Harry smiled and threw the Quaffle towards the goal hoops then tore after it. When had he started finding Malfoy's snark funny?

After Harry had been playing for half an hour or so he saw Malfoy leave the pitch for the changing rooms. He decided to give him ten minutes to shower before going in himself. It wasn't that he was bothered by communal showering, but there was something different about sharing a locker room with two Quidditch teams and showering with Malfoy. When he entered the locker room, the smell of white chocolate was overpowering. Throwing his sweaty clothes onto the floor he turned round to see Malfoy massaging white goo into his long, slender legs.

He cleared his throat. "Er, what are you doing?"

Malfoy didn't look up. Harry didn't look at what the tiny towel tied round his waist revealed. "I'm moisturising. What does it look like?"

Malfoy straightened up and began rubbing the gunk into his chest. Harry's eyes traced the narrow diagonal scar that dissected his torso. "You moisturise?"

Malfoy looked at him. "Clearly. Flying twice a day in the freezing wind is not exactly conducive to supple skin." He squirted a dollop into his hand and Harry did not think it looked like spunk. He smeared the handful on his other arm and as he twisted his forearm Harry saw he was unmarked.

"What do you use?" Harry's mouth was dry and he couldn't stop watching Malfoy.

"Cocoa butter. It's Muggle, but it's more effective than anything I could make myself." Malfoy twisted and rubbed his shoulders. He lifted his head and smirked. "Seeing anything you like?"

"Er…" Harry wasn't listening, but instead watching the play of Malfoy's muscles under his skin.

With deliberate slowness Malfoy looked up and down Harry's body. He suddenly realised he was only wearing tight Sloggis, that the man in the shop had assured him were ideal for strenuous exercise, and that his cock was not disinterested in the show Malfoy was putting on. With a wicked grin Malfoy tossed the bottle over to Harry. He caught it, reflexively. "Try it. You'll find your skin becomes positively… touchable." Harry would have sworn that Malfoy purred the last word.

Harry blushed and dropped the bottle onto the bench. "Er. Thanks." He grabbed a towel and his wash bag and tried not to run into the safety of the showers. He leaned his head against the tiled wall and groaned softly. What the fuck just happened? Why was he not being sniped at? Facing the wall he stayed there washing his hair and body until he heard the door slam. Shutting the water off, he grabbed his towel and dried off. He cast a wandless _Tempus_ charm and swore when he realised he'd have to choose between dealing with his throbbing cock and eating breakfast.

He sat down on the bench with his towel open around his waist and looked at the bottle of cocoa butter Malfoy had chucked at him. He took the cap off and sniffed it. It did smell like white chocolate. Harry's mouth began to water and he squirted some into his hand. He looked down at his cock. Was he actually going to do this? Wasn't there something a little bit odd about wanking with the moisturiser Malfoy had given him? He knew he liked blokes. He was even open about it. Apparently it wasn't a big deal in the wizarding world. The show Malfoy had given him had just proved what Harry had always suspected, that there was a hot body underneath all that attitude. _Fuck it,_ he thought. _I'm eighteen years old and I defeated Voldemort. If I want to wank with Malfoy's poncey moisturiser, I bloody will._

Breathing deeply, he came down from his orgasm. As he rubbed the last of the cocoa butter in to his softening cock he absently noticed that it did indeed make his skin nice to touch. Standing up on shaky legs, he got dressed and put the bottle carefully in his locker. He wondered how he would be able to face Malfoy after that.

Harry hurried through this homework that evening and ran down to the pitch. He was looking forward to seeing Malfoy in the locker room again possibly more than he was looking forward to flying. He was there earlier than usual and let the Snitch out. When he saw Malfoy arrive, he flew down so he was hovering next to him. "Wanna play one on one for the Snitch?"

Malfoy looked round at him, surprised. "I don't think so, Potter."

Harry was oddly disappointed. "Look, can't we get over this? We were both twats to each other, but the war is over and I'm fed up of this stupid squabbling. Let's just be friends." He stuck his hand out.

He could almost feel the seconds ticking by as a variety of emotions played across Malfoy's face. "Fine." Malfoy grasped his hand. Harry was not surprised to feel that they were soft, apart from his broomstick calluses. "Is the Snitch out already?"

Harry grinned. "Yeah." He sped off, ignoring Malfoy's yells of 'cheater' behind him.

He felt Malfoy catch up with him. "I thought good little Gryffindors didn't play dirty, Potter."

Harry laughed, recklessly. "I'm not a Gryffindor anymore, Malfoy. I'm an Eighth-year. We don't have Houses. I'm not little, either." He sped off.

They flew for almost half an hour before Harry heard Malfoy whooping. He turned messily and flew after him, following him into a dive. He was too far behind though, and Malfoy triumphantly held the Snitch aloft. Harry grinned. There was something euphoric about flying with Malfoy when they were not constrained by their House allegiances and stupid rivalry.

"Good catch, mate." Harry looked up at the sky. "It's probably time to go in."

Malfoy was staring at the Snitch in his hand with something that looked like amazement. Suddenly, he hollered. "I beat you!"

Harry snorted. "Yeah. Don't get too used to it, though."

They flew down to the locker rooms and put their balls and brooms away.

Harry tried not to watch Malfoy stripping off, but he couldn't help it if he was in his peripheral vision. A voice jerked him out of his thoughts. "So, is your skin touchable yet?"

Harry flushed. "It's, er, soft." Malfoy grinned, wickedly, and sauntered into the showers. Harry cursed under his breath and tried to think of something that would make his hard on go away. In desperation he thought about Dudley. It always worked in an emergency.

He chose a shower a few down from Malfoy and turned to face the wall. He absolutely was not going to watch him soaping himself, especially not if it was anything like watching him moisturise. He suddenly remembered that he still hadn't invited Malfoy to play Quidditch that Sunday.

"Malfoy?" Harry turned to see that Malfoy was bending down, arse up, seemingly concentrating on washing his toes. He looked over his shoulder at Harry, and Harry nearly whimpered. Thoughts of Dudley were only so effective when presented against such a picture as that.

"Er… Sunday."

Malfoy slowly straightened up, and stood with his back to Harry. Again he looked over his shoulder, right at him. "Sunday?"

"Quidditch. Friendly. Eighth-years. Wanna come?"

Malfoy smiled, a smile full of mischievous promise. "Oh, I'll come, Potter."

Harry smiled tightly. "Great." He faced the wall again and just about resisted the temptation to bang his head against the tiles. Malfoy shut off his shower and sashayed back into the changing area. Harry wished he hadn't had his vision corrected. Then he wouldn't be able to see the muscles of his arse move as he swung his hips and sauntered across the room. He took a deep breath. Nothing would get rid of his erection now, short of a shower colder than he thought he could stand, or getting off.

He pushed away his fear of rejection and walked over to his locker. Malfoy was now standing completely starkers, moisturising his legs teasingly. Harry dried himself roughly then crossed the room in a few short strides.

He stood behind him, breathing into his ear. "You. You are a little tease." He growled. Malfoy shuddered and Harry watched in fascination as the tiny hairs on the nape of his neck stood up. "Aren't you?"

Malfoy swallowed. "Teases are people who don't follow through." His voice was not as steady as normal. That thought made Harry smile. "Have I indicated that I will not follow through?"

"Apparently not." Harry spun him round so Malfoy had to lift his hands up to brace them against the locker and grabbed the bottle off the bench. "Let's see how soft you really are." Harry began rubbing the body butter in to his shoulder blades and back. As he moved down his spine, he thought he heard Malfoy whimper. He bared his teeth at the sight of Malfoy's perfect, kissable arse. Putting more moisturiser on his hands and rubbing them together he sank to his knees. He rubbed each cheek with one hand and when it was all absorbed; he couldn't help but sink his teeth into where Malfoy's back became his bottom.

Slicking his fingers up with the cocoa butter, he wondered if he was actually going to be this bold. Then he decided to stop thinking and start acting. "Is all of you soft, I wonder?" he murmured. Snaking a hand round Malfoy's hips, he grasped his cock. Harry was not really surprised to feel that it was as supple and touchable as the rest of him. Malfoy moaned and threw his head back. Harry looked up, entranced by the play of the light on his soft damp hair. Harry traced his slippery finger round and round Malfoy's hole, applying teasing pressure but never quite pushing forwards. As Malfoy's moans got louder, he pushed one finger gently inside Malfoy and nuzzled his bum, soothingly. He circled his finger, testing the stretch of his tight ring.

Malfoy began to sigh. "Please!" he exhaled, almost desperately. Harry smirked, triumphantly. Pushing a second finger in, he twisted and crooked his fingers, searchingly. The groan Malfoy let out assured Harry that he had found the spot. He sped up the hand which was stroking his pale cock and was rewarded with a shudder and a shout from Malfoy as he came all over the lockers. Reaching down to his own cock, the combination of Malfoy's spunk and his moisturiser on his hand had him coming in a few slippery strokes. Malfoy let out a deep breath and leaned his head against the locker. Harry pulled his fingers out and holding his cheeks open, placed a closed mouthed, almost chaste kiss on Malfoy's arsehole which resulted in another whimper. He rose up from his knees and pulled him down to sit on his lap.

Malfoy looked at him with a contented smile. "Is flying with you always this fun?"

Harry smiled. "Only for you."

fin.


End file.
